Collide
by JellyBean30
Summary: 3rd in a 4 part series - House & Cameron - Sequel to Inertia & Paralyzed Rated M for potentially dark themes & possible language
1. Follow

_**Collide**_

_I'm open, you're closed  
Where I follow, you'll go  
I worry I won't see your face  
Light up again  
__Collide by Howie Day_

**Chapter 1 – Follow**

You sigh as you stand in front of the mirror and practice your impassive face. You're sure that word of your break-up with Chase is all over the hospital. The nurses' furtive whispers whenever you turn your back are proof enough. You certainly didn't tell anyone, and you can't decide if you're upset enough to confront Chase about how the news got out or if you're still feeling too guilty to speak to him.

Guilty wins.

You go through your shifts for the next few days carefully and methodically. You ignore the nurses as they lean their heads together and look in your direction while they gossip. You avoid the OR suites completely, sending all your surgical cases upstairs with assorted interns. You pretend the Diagnostic floor doesn't exist.

You make it through nearly a week and begin to think that maybe you're going to be okay. If the nurses are still talking about you, perhaps you're hearing it less. You don't feel like you're struggling to make it through the day before you collapse and cry yourself to sleep.

You have just finished your final shift of the week. You aren't even on call this weekend. For the first time in days, you feel almost good. You make your way to the locker room to change out of your scrubs and are just tossing a hairbrush into a bag. And then you hear something.

"I can't understand why she'd do something so crazy," a voice says. You don't recognize the speaker.

"Oh isn't obvious?" a second voice snaps. You think you might recognize this voice as belonging to a nurse who works the ER swing shift. "She's still got a thing for House."

"That just doesn't make any sense," the first voice says. "They stayed here _together."_

"Did they?" swing-shift-nurse counters. "We don't know that. Maybe she stayed and he followed."

"You mean she stayed here on purpose? For House?" the first voice muses. "No. No, I don't think so. I mean, I'm not saying you're wrong; maybe she does still have a thing for him. But she and Dr. Chase were happy together."

"Or he was happy, and she was kidding herself," swing-shift-nurse says.

"Such a shame," the first voice says. You grip the door of your locker tightly and listen to their footsteps recede as they leave. You wait until you've heard the pneumatic door swing closed before clicking shut your locker and sitting down heavily on the bench behind you.

Are they right?

Are you crazy for leaving Chase?

Would it have been better to continue to play along like the happy couple?

You shake your head. No. Even if Chase would be happier now, in the long run he would only be more hurt when the truth came out. You don't love him the way he loves you. And that is not something you can fake. Or should.

You feel better. Not really, but you feel better about your decision. You are doing the right thing. You gather up your bag and jacket. You shrug both over your shoulders and stride purposefully from the locker room. Should you happen upon the two women you overheard, you don't want them any the wiser.

"It couldn't be for lack of other opportunities," swing-shift nurse says at the desk, making no effort to keep her conversation private. You straighten your shoulders as you walk past the desk, holding your head high and pretending you don't hear anything.

"Then why did she stay?" anonymous nurse asks. You can't help it; you turn your head to see who the anonymous nurse is. You regret it immediately. Because rather than the expanse of the lobby behind you your vision is completely eclipsed by a black blazer and a 'Cocoa Puffs' t-shirt. You don't look up; there is no need.

"You know," his deep voice drawls, "I've been wondering that very thing."

"Keep wondering," you say to the t-shirt and turn to escape.

He follows. Of course he follows. You can hear him thumping behind you and for a fleeting moment you consider running. You don't. Because that would be cruel. Because you'll only have to come back Monday. And because you're curious what might happen if he catches you.

His large hand easily encircles your forearm and you stop. You turn in his direction, but don't completely face him. You have been avoiding this very moment because you don't know what to say. He will be cryptic and insulting; you will be direct and hurt. It's your pattern, and it won't get you anywhere.

"I heard a rumor about you," he says quietly. You have to look now. He almost sounds serious. You know there have been a very few times in all the years you worked for him when he was actually serious and he sounded a lot like this.

"Don't believe everything you hear. Everybody lies, right?" You flash him a tight, bitter smirk and try to shake his arm loose. You can be tightlipped and glib now too. And it's one of the very few weapons you have in an arsenal against him.

"Yes, but gossip always has a foothold in truth," he replies. You cringe; why does he always have to be so damn logical?

"What do you want, House?"

"I want an answer."

You stare blankly. "What's the question?"

He rolls his eyes impatiently and ends by looking at his sneaker tops. You aren't going to make this easy for him. Not this time. Not like every other time before. You can't be the only one to give.

"The question," he says quietly, so quietly you unconsciously lean in to hear him better, "is why?"

"Why," you repeat.

"Why did you stay?" House asks. Finally, he asks. You take a deep breath to tell him to go to hell, but he isn't done asking. "Speculation runs between you staying for Chase and you staying for me. My sources tell me that you two are splitsville. But you're still here."

"Yeah."

"So…why?" He looks at you briefly, and then back down again, almost like he's afraid to catch your eyes.

You sigh. _So this is it,_ you think, _we're actually going to have this conversation._ You're scared. You have wished this would happen so many times, but now that it is happening you don't know what to say.

You turn toward your car and he grabs your arm again. You look back in surprise.

"I need to know," he says, and drops your arm as if it burns his flesh.

"And if we're really going to talk about this, I need a drink big enough to scare my mother," you tell him. He raises an eyebrow at you, and you smirk in return.

You turn and walk into the parking lot. You are about three steps from your car when you realize that you can't hear him. You turn and shoot him a glance over your shoulder.

"You coming?" You turn back and dig your keys out of your jacket pocket. You unlock the door and slide behind the wheel.

And you wait to see if he will follow.

tbc ...


	2. Why

_You start to wonder why you're here not there  
__And you'd give anything to get what's fair  
But fair ain't what you really need  
Oh, you don't need_

_Stop & Stare by OneRepublic_

**Chapter 2 – Why**

You wonder how long the two of you can really sit here and_ not_ speak to each other. He seems in no hurry to prompt you and even two drinks later you're still mostly certain this is the worst idea you've ever had. You can't have a serious discussion about feelings with House. You doubt if anyone can.

"This was a bad idea," you finally say, and begin to slide out of the booth the two of you are occupying. You don't know what you were thinking would happen, but letting House watch you get drunk and morose was definitely not in the picture.

"Do you love him?"

You stop mid-way between standing and sitting. Your back is to him, affording you a moment to react without his seeing you. Slowly, you sit back down. You place your hands on the table and stare out into the smoky bar you chose.

"Just cut right to the chase," you say inanely.

"Pun intended?" House asks and you shoot him a glare. He doesn't seem the least bit apologetic.

"I don't love him the way he loves me," you say slowly. You chance a quick glance at House, but his face could be described as stony at best. You wonder if you'll ever be able to read him.

"And it took you all that time to figure it out?" he asks, more to himself than really to you. "Maybe Wilson was right," he mumbles, and clearly this remark was not meant for you to understand.

"Even horses wearing blinders can get spooked by something right in front of them," you tell him. It's the best metaphor you can come up with. You've spent so much time trying to explain it to yourself; you haven't hit upon anything that makes it clear to you, never mind him.

"So it was right in front of you the whole time?"

You shake your head. "Maybe I just took the blinders off." He nods and you pick up your glass and drain it. You can already feel its effect on you; drinking before dinner was definitely a bad idea.

"Why did you stay?" he asks again. "You must have had other offers, better offers. You managed three years working for me. That's like resume gold."

"It is. And I did. Get other offers. Lots of other offers, actually. But…" you pause, searching for the answer that is closest to the truth as you know it. "Starting over is still starting over. I didn't want … I don't want to pick up and start another new life for myself."

"You're young," House says, a little bitterly it seems. "Starting over shouldn't be so hard."

You smile at him sadly and look down into your glass. It's empty but for the slowly melting ice cube. "I'm not as young as you seem to think. And starting over is always hard."

You want to ask him why he cares, but you know that's a sure way to get him to walk away. You stare resolutely at the table, carefully taking in every detail of the ring forming where the bottom of your glass meets the wood. You could tell him so much more, but if you have learned anything in years with him it is to keep yourself guarded. You still don't know what he is looking for, and you won't continue to offer up every bit of yourself to him until he finds something among the pieces of your soul that interests him.

"I saw the tape," he says. You drag your eyes away from the glass and to him, but he isn't looking at you. You frown and furrow your brow, trying to make sense of what he's saying. "The interview. With the film crew. Before their final edited atrocity was aired, I saw it."

You pale and instantly feel nauseous. You wish now you had fled when you'd had the chance. _This_ is why he agreed to come with you? _This?_ So he could mock you, so he could shame you, humiliate you? You can feel tears welling already, hot and angry and waiting to be spilled.

"Why?"

"What?" You expect a slander, a diatribe about your idiocy, some carefully witty and cutting remark about the new level of pathetic you've reached. But that is not what you hear. His voice is wrong; he doesn't sound like the House you know. He sounds…scared.

You can handle insults; you can handle vitriol. You aren't prepared to deal with this …naked honesty.

"Why do you want me?"

tbc ...


	3. Realize

A/N: The italicized text in the chapter is a tiny little flashback.

_Take time to realize  
That I am on your side  
didn't I, didn't I tell you  
But I can't spell it out for you  
No it's never gonna be that simple  
No I can't spell it out for you_

_Realize by Colbie Caillat_

**Chapter 3 – Realize**

You've never had a panic attack before, and this would certainly not be the time or place you would choose for your first, but you can feel your pulse racing and your mouth drying up. Your breath is coming in short, frantic gasps and you would swear on a Bible, atheist or not, that the blurriness in your vision is not alcohol related.

You rest your elbows on the table and bury your face in your hands. The condensation from your glass has left them moist and the cooling effect on your blushing face calms you to a degree. You take several deep breaths, holding them for a count of three and blowing out slowly. When your head stops swimming, you recall a similar if less intense moment the first year you worked for House.

_"You like me. Why?"_

_"That's kind of a sad question."_

"I don't …." you stumble over your words, not sure how you could say any of this in a way he could understand or really believe.

Apparently you pause too long, because he is already sliding from the booth. You can't let him leave like that, not when you've only just gotten to the part you need to talk about so badly.

"I don't know what you want to hear," you blurt at him, hoping it's enough to stop him leaving. It is. He slides back into the booth carefully, both hands resting on the handle of his cane, now propped between his knees.

"I can't answer your question. I can't spell it out for you. And even if I could, you wouldn't believe me. House, I don't know how to be around you," you tell him. You speak slowly, thinking out paragraphs of what you'd like to tell him and then paring it down to a few words he might actually listen to. "I'm not sure it even matters. Because no matter how I am, it always seems like you've already decided how this whole thing is going to go."

He shrugs, whether in understanding or confusion you don't know. You sigh and close your eyes in anger. This is exactly how you'd been afraid this would go. You aren't making yourself clear, or he isn't listening carefully enough. Either way, the result is the same.

"It's like we're playing parts in a movie, only I don't have the script. You already know what's going to happen and I'm just fumbling along trying to keep up with you," you tell him. He smiles, and you can only hope the metaphor pleases him, reaches him. "I keep missing my cues. Dropping lines. And this is the scene where I'm supposed to…do what? Make an impassioned speech about how much I love you and why we should be together? Tell you sadly that I love another man and we can never be? Throw myself at you?"

He looks away when you say that, and you have just one more unanswered question. Is he tempted? Is he disgusted? You plunge ahead, recklessly, foolishly. Now that you've begun, you can't stop. He asked, but his need to hear this may not equal your need to say it. For the moment, he was right. It is about what you need.

"And even worse than not knowing what I'm supposed to be saying is knowing…it probably doesn't make any difference. Because you already know what you're here for, and even if I said all the right things, whatever those right things are, it wouldn't make any difference. You're going to do what you're going to do." He looks as though he might want to say something but at this point you're so wound up you won't let him interrupt. "I could give you a hundred reasons why I want you. And another hundred why it's the stupidest idea I've ever had. But none of those answers matter. Because you're asking the wrong question."

You watch him while he ponders what you've said. You know he's had many more years of practice at hiding himself than you've had in reading him, but you can see things. You can see uncertainty in the way his eyes flicker over the room but never land on you. You can see doubt in the way he tilts head. You can see something else in the way his jaw clenches. Anger? Disappointment?

"What's the right question?" he asks.

He's done it. He's given you the opening to ask the question. The question that you've needed answered since the moment he dropped you off after your disaster of a date. And you are going to ask him. You're not sure you're ready for the answer; the answer you know will be nothing but brutally honest, whether it goes the way you hope or the way you fear. So before you ask …

You lean in slowly. This is achingly familiar, but at least this time there is no ulterior motive. You aren't looking to get anything from him but his lips on yours. He knows what's coming, and this time he doesn't hesitate. The moment your lips brush his you can feel his tongue pressing into your mouth. He tastes like fire and heat and strength. He tastes like freedom and power. He tastes like everything you wish you were but aren't, like everything you need.

You kiss for what feels like hours, but in reality is probably barely a minute. You can't afford to lose yourself in him, because you might never find yourself again. The last time you touched him this way nearly ended you. You had to abandon everything you knew about your life and start over; you can't do that again. You break the kiss and lean back a fraction.

"You said something about a question?" he asks, and you think for the first time in all the years and in every conversation you hear absolutely nothing in his voice to be interpreted. He really wants to know.

"As sad as it is that you have to ask why I would want you…it's even sadder to ask…why don't you want me?"


	4. Start Over

_I've been searching deep down in my soul  
Words that I'm hearing are starting to get old  
It feels like I'm starting all over again  
The last three years were just pretend  
-__Goodbye to You by Michelle Branch_

**Chapter 4 - Start Over**

Nothing happens.

Not just he doesn't answer you.

Nothing.

Happens.

You wait, holding your breath, not sure you could breath even if you wanted to because time has clearly halted. The earth has stopped spinning. You doubt if air even exists anymore.

You just wait.

Suspended in time, in space, in love and lust.

And then…

He backs off. It's almost imperceptible. Almost. But with scarcely an inch between you any movement is noticeable and he pulls away. The moment is broken and you have your answer. Not in so many words, not in any words, but as clear as day nonetheless.

You are right.

He doesn't want you.

You don't know why you're so surprised. You've told yourself enough times that he doesn't want you. Cried about it, yelled about it, turned it over in your mind while running countless miles, washing endless dishes, folding mountains of laundry. You've convinced yourself over and over that the whole thing, whatever the thing is, exists only in your head.

But you are still surprised.

And you are still hurt.

You slide back rapidly across the worn leather seat and grope blindly for the purse you know is somewhere behind you. You train your eyes on the table. Even the idea of meeting his gaze is painful. You know you won't escape the reality without tears. You can already feel them, hot and choking in the back of your throat, threatening to spill out and rip away your last bit of dignity in front of him.

You feel a strap on the bench and snag it, yanking it hard to your body and grabbing the table's edge to hasten your retreat. You lurch from your seat and swoon slightly, the combination of the drinks and the damage almost proving too much. You turn your back on him and clench your eyes tightly against the off-kilter room you're about to cross.

"Cameron …"

"Don't," you cut him off. You can't imagine what he's thinking of saying. It doesn't matter. If he insults you, you will crumble. If he tries to placate you, you will lash out. If he pities you, you will loathe him and yourself. The only thing that matters is what he isn't doing.

He isn't loving you.

You wait for the room to stop spinning, for the world to stop spinning, for your life to stop spiraling down. Somewhere in the darkness of your mind, beyond one of the still and spooky corners you don't turn, a crypt opens and from within outpours every ounce of pain, every drop of despair, every gram of grief you have ever felt. There is no more room for the pain of your past because this pain, this soul rending pain, will overflow the crypt all on its own.

You see a small cross fashioned out of twigs and an old shoelace, the cross that marked the grave of your beloved dog Chestnut. The first time death touched your life. You hear the wet, rasping sobs of Tammy Stewart, your best friend from kindergarten until the ninth grade, the day her family moved away. The first time life took someone you loved. You taste blood, the blood that trickled down the side of your face as you waited in a smoldering vehicle for the paramedics to arrive. The first time you became acquainted with a hospital. You smell the flowers, thick, cloying and overwhelming, that choked you as you sat through your mother's funeral. The first time you wondered if there really was a God.

None of these compares to the utter anguish you feel right now. You are crippled by it. And you will never overcome it while you are still living it.

"I didn't want to start over. Not again. But I can't keep going here. Not like this. Call it running if you want, but I can't get past this, get past you, when you're right in front of me." You're babbling and nearly sobbing. You pause and take a deep breath and you can _feel _him. Greg House, larger than life. As usual, you are eclipsed by him. He's sliding across the booth's seat, closing the gap between you. You long to let him. You don't. It's a fantasy, the happiness that you imagine the two of you could have, flawed and fatal.

"You were right," you say bitterly. "I am pathetic. And naïve and all the other things that stopped you from wanting me. And even though I hate that you're such a coward, I hate that I'm still so pathetic even more. Because from now on, no matter what, every knock on my door is going to sound like wood on wood. Because that's what I'm waiting to hear."

You open your eyes, grateful that the room is at least level, if still somewhat murky around the edges. You would almost swear that you feel something on your back, almost like fingers, but you don't look back.

You weave your way through the bar to the exit. It's raining and you bark out a bitter laugh. Of course it's raining, the world is ending. You're glad the weather is gloomy; sunshine right now would be an affront, as if the universe itself were mocking you and your foolish heart.

You hail a taxi, knowing the tears you can't hold back and the drinks you are barely keeping down are more than enough reason for you not to drive. You slump into the backseat of the cab and let the tears fall as they may.


	5. Miles

_Red letter day and I'm in a blue mood  
__Wishing that blue would just carry me away  
I've been talking to God don't know  
If it's helping or not  
But surely something has got to got to got to give  
Cause I can't keep waiting to live  
How far do I have to go to get to you  
Many the miles  
Many the miles  
-__Many the Miles by Sarah Bareilles_

**Chapter 5 - Miles**

You are more tired than you realize, because as soon as the taxi begins moving you fall into an uneasy sleep.

_You're running. It's early morning; the sun has barely risen over the tops of the trees that line the road. The air is crisp and cool, wicking away the sweat that beads on your forearms and drips from the tangles of your hair down the back of your neck. Your breathing is hard but steady, your pace is brisk but not frantic. _

_The trees become more sparse as your feet pound against the light gray pavement. The worn concrete gives way to smooth blacktop and the trees are replaced by telephone poles. You're running faster now; the yellow lines in the road flash like the shutter clicks of a camera. _

_Running faster still, the telephone poles take on a warped appearance. You can't puzzle out the difference, but something about them is wrong. You pick up the pace, wanting to get away. You're running full out now, fleeing. _

The familiar twisting of motion sickness pulls you from your dream. The taxi has stopped; you're home. Grateful the ride has ended, you hand the driver a few bills and walk slowly inside. Another few minutes and the nausea of your dream would have become an embarrassing reality and you've suffered enough embarrassment tonight to last you several lifetimes.

You rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen until you come up with a box of Saltine crackers. You shove aside several small yogurt cartons in the refrigerator until your fingers glide over the smooth plastic of an abandoned Gatorade lurking in the far reaches of the middle shelf. You take your snack into the living room and sink into the plush micro fiber love seat, dragging a throw blanket over your shoulders.

You nibble on the crackers and sip the drink carefully while you cry. You wouldn't normally indulge yourself in crying over him, but you think today qualifies as an exception to the 'no more tears about that bastard' rule. You earned these tears.

You cry, silent painful tears, until there is nothing left. You close your eyes to rest, and sleep overtakes you.

_Your lungs burn, but you run faster. A painful cramp forms in your side. Your legs feel heavy and you stumble. Your knuckles scrape the blacktop as you scramble to keep your feet under you. You panic, running blindly to escape what surrounds you._

_You feel lightheaded and a roll of nausea makes your legs wobble. You stop, hands clutching your knees. Doubled over at the waist, eyes squeezed shut, you pant against your chest and try not to vomit. _

_You finally lift your head and stare. You can see the tree line where you were first running, miles in the distance. You make a slow about face and look ahead. Miles and miles of the dark road, paralleled by an endless queue of poles. You could run for years and never escape them._

You wake slowly. You brush stray cracker crumbs off your lap and guzzle the last of your Gatorade. You stand and roll your shoulders and neck to relieve the stiffness that has settled. You fold up the blanket and drape it over the back of the love seat. You take the box of Saltines back to the kitchen, tossing your empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin next to the refrigerator. You lean your back against the counter and take a deep breath.

You grieve. You aren't done; you know that there will be many days of despair and nights of tears in your future. But you have begun. And just as you did when your husband passed away, you will survive.

It's time to move on.

You make a quick stop in the bathroom to wash your face before returning the living room, this time to the small desk in the corner opposite the tread mill. You sit down and open the right hand drawer, removing from within a yellow folder. Yellow for caution, yellow for things to be thought about. You open the folder and look over the dozen or so job offers you considered before deciding to remain in Princeton.

You give each set of papers a cursory glance until you reach the final one. The offer is from a small hospital in the southwest with a growing reputation for leading edge research. You stare at the pages for a very long time, reading snatches of the offer they've extended and allowing the words to bleed together into oblivion.

_You walk a slower pace forward, your breathing at least under control. With so many miles to go, running will get you nowhere but worn out. You don't know where you're going, only that you have to get out of where you are. _

_You watch the blacktop disappear beneath your feet. You count the yellow dashes in the road as you pass them. When you reach one hundred, you stop to check your progress._

_You stop and look at the poles. The warped poles. Warped with a crook at the top. Like a cane. Surrounding you, encompassing you, obscuring everything you can see in all directions for miles. You don't know if you'll ever be past them. But you do know you're one hundred dashes further than you were before._

You shake yourself out of your daydream. You've been sitting at the desk well over two hours. Your back hurts. You stretch and rub tired hands over your face. You blink repeatedly to relieve the scratchiness in your eyes, but to no avail. You close the folder, placing the now well-worn pages on top of it.

Time hasn't helped you in getting over him. Maybe miles are what you need.

You check the locks and flick off light switches on your way to bed. You change into your softest pair of flannel pajamas and climb into bed wearily.

You ignore the phantom wooden knock that haunts you as you fall into sleep.

You're done with dreams.


End file.
